A Heist With A Spy
by DiVaGiRl13
Summary: A mission gone wrong. A successful heist. Kat meets Chameleon. Kat's mom and Cammie's dad, there couldn't be a link there, right? Art Thieves and Spies mix pretty well when you think about it, well if they don't, they're screwed R
1. Expect the Unexpected

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. All belongs to Ally Carter!

Thank you to all who have reviewed my story! (: Glad to know that the idea has promise and some potential! Thank you for the favorites and alerts as well. Hope you enjoy the first chapter! (:

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**CHAPTER 1: _Expect the Unexpected_**

**BARCELONA, SPAIN**

**POINT OF VIEW: THIRD PERSON LIMITED [**_**Katarina Bishop**_**]**

"_**The little things matter. Those little things can get you arrested, which is a reason I own the plates from Buckingham Palace in my mansion and I'm not sharing a dreary cell with an orange jumper on," – Uncle Eddie**_

Who would've thought a measly little card could change so much? Katarina Bishop wouldn't have thought of it, at least not at that moment she wouldn't have. The young girl with chocolate brown hair pulled her weight farther to her left leg, avoiding the red beams on her right.

This wasn't strange to the 16 year old, navigating through laser grids that had the ability to kill a man four times her size was like wandering around at a mall—easy and normal. She almost scoffed at the thought. _My definition of normal needs to be revised, _Kat mused.

_If only dancing were this easy, _Kat thought, recalling the words of a handsome boy from about month ago (who was probably charming-slash-distracting a female security guard about 30 yards away).

Her leg stretched out and she took another step, completing another beat in the rhythm. A few more electric beams were all that stood between Kat and a beautiful young woman made of oil pastels.

The room was dimly lit. The only actual lights were surrounding the framed masterpiece. Of course, there were those flashing red rays but Kat didn't put them in the same category as light bulbs for obvious reasons. With the stealthiness that resembled the feline she was named after, the painting was replaced with a replica and they were gone.

"So, are you enjoying being back?" from the way he had said it, she knew he already had his answer. Kat's shaded navy blue eyes met bright and teasing hazel-green ones.

They were standing in the living room of one of the Hale family's luxurious mansions. If Kat was correct, this was his fourth favorite house.

"You enjoy flirting with security guards?" Kat teased back, the young billionaire chuckled and pulled out a slip of paper. Kat was the girl, who outsmarted the notorious Arturo Taccone; she didn't need the brains to know that seven numbers were scrawled on it.

"Aw, are you_ jealous_ Kitty Kat?" Hale grinned, using her nickname. The young Bishop didn't flush pink at all—she knew she wasn't the type of girl to do that nor was she the type that got jealous.

"Would you like me to kick you?" The brunette asked, "'Cause that's what I'm hearing,"

The boy with the golden tan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but the slow debonair smile was still planted on his handsome face. The teenage girl could only roll her almond shaped eyes and plopped onto a black leather sofa. Those very eyes were dying to see the success of their heist.

Her eager hands were holding onto the engraved frame, she hadn't allowed herself to take in the details of the brilliant painting of _Una mujer en el proyector. _Like the name of the canvas, there was a young woman standing in a grey crowd of people—everything was in dark and lights hues of grey, the trees, the streets, even the people.

Only one person stood out in the sea of lethargic paint, it was the young beautiful girl. The women looked to be in her early twenties.

She had delicate and soft curls of light camel hair. Kat suspected the artist had used a blend of ecru colored paint with fallow to get the lush shade. The woman had skin that looked as soft as flower petals, the skin a pale but not-too-pale tone with pink peaking through her cheeks.

All in all, the girl was stunning but the most enticing part of her was her eyes. They were a dazzling fair shade of caramel, staring straight and intensely at her. Kat had to squash the urge to move back and forth to see if its eyes followed her (something that didn't work _at all _with the replica of the Mona Lisa; that was its only flaw).

The girl gave an unusual vibe; it wasn't like Vermeer's _A Girl with a Pearl Earring, _looking depressed or helpless. The girl almost looked intimidating—independent, that was for certain.

A strange fire sparked behind her eyes (metaphorically, of course), as if she wanted to burn a message into the artist's mind with her eyes. The blue-eyed thief hadn't even noticed that the sandy-haired boy had sat next to her, until he spoke out loud.

"So…_this _is the famous _A Woman in the Spotlight,_" Hale said, his left arm was stretched over the back of the couch—leaning towards me. "Who's the artist?"

"No one knows. They just found this someplace near Italy," Kat explained her eyes turned to Hale's, the somber feeling in her stomach showed in her darkened eyes, "And don't think they found this near some pretty canal in Venice. Apparently this man from the ghettos found this painting rolled up in a container somewhere and sold it to the curator of the museum we just cased,"

Hale nodded solemnly, understanding—ever since meeting Abiram Stein, the young girl had noticed that her friend had changed his views on the Old Masters and all art in general.

"We'll give this to Mr. Stein, he'll know where its home is," He said softly, his arm had changed from lying on the back of the couch to loosely holding Kat's shoulders. The brunette liked it there, but she'd never admit it aloud.

"Yeah," Kat said, equally soft. It was then that it caught her eye, something that didn't fit the picture. Something was stuck in the crafted frame.

A white card that looked so familiar to Katarina. Her hands slipped it out, the appearance reminded her of a business card—strictly professional looking. The familiar handwriting was there—like she'd expected. Kat's blue eyes skimmed the snow colored paper.

Eyes that were a cross between clear honey and forest green were staring at her, she could feel it. Kat could also feel his concern. She didn't say, _"Everything's going to be okay," _or _"It's all fine, nothing big," _because she wasn't sure if either one of those statements were even true. Only one statement seemed to fit the situation and it's exactly what she said.

"Hale? Could you ask Marcus to arrange us two plane tickets for tomorrow morning?" the second generation of Bishop was already up and she started for the grand staircase, heading for her guestroom.

Kat was out of the room before Hale could even answer, but she heard his voice ring out from behind her.

"Where to?" that was thing, which destination would be best? Poland was out of the question, Mr. Stein couldn't have the painting just yet—it was their only clue. Should she leave to Paris to find her father? Should she head to England and round up the Bagshaws or even Gabrielle in Switzerland? Maybe going to Florida would've been best; Simon could've been useful, right? But she said none of those places or people.

"New York," but the young girl only added _"To Uncle Eddie," _in her mind.

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**POINT OF VIEW: FIRST PERSON [**_**Cameron Ann Morgan**_**]**

"_**Beginnings are always hard, we all know that. But want to know what's worse? The ending, why? Because you know there's a new beginning coming to smack you in the face. Yeah, life can be a bitch," – Macey McHenry**_

_Expect the unexpected_. That was one phrase that I, a Gallagher Girl, couldn't do properly. Not yet anyways.

I didn't expect the sweetest boy in the world to drive a forklift through a wall and hit my dreamy CoveOps teacher—to save me. I didn't expect that the cute boy who was flirting with me in an elevator was a spy as well. I didn't expect an enemy helicopter to land and attack me and my roommate in Boston. I didn't expect them to really be after me. I didn't expect a lot of things. But as I stood there with my best friend, I knew that my extremely long list of "I didn't expect…" had just gotten a little bit longer.

I didn't expect the Henley to be stolen from and burnt to a crisp.

_The Henley—_as in the most secure art museum in the world was plucked and deprived of its most prized possession, the original masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci himself—_Angel Returning to Heaven._ It was gone. Not to mention four other portraits and if I heard right, a statue.

"Oh God," I whispered, there was bright yellow police tape wrapped around what seemed to be the exhibit. The darkened part of the large building was basically webbed with the lines "POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS."

"We really need a TV at Gallagher," Bex mumbled, her hands were shoved into her stylish coat. "Really, it feels like we're living under a rock or something," she shook some of the snowflakes away from her beautiful midnight mane. I only nodded, feeling the wind stir the floating pieces of ice around me.

Winter break, it was suppose to be a time where everyone relaxed—it was almost like a rule, a law. _A spy's life is, by definition, rules-optional, _the words of my aunt swirl in my head and I couldn't help but think, maybe once in my life I wished the rules weren't so easy to bend and I could live by them. But life just wasn't fair, especially for a rules-optional agent.

I was jerked out of my thoughts by someone shaking my shoulder.

"Cam, he said back up," Bex said, my eyes were on the tall, uniformed officer in front of us. I only muttered an apology and stepped back.

I looked around, Solomon's lesson of noticing things coming back to me. Through all the unexpected things that had happened to me, I could proudly say something I _did _expect. The sidewalks were crammed, filled with families, business people, and shopping teenagers—a pavement artists' dream home.

"Come on Cam; let's head to one of the shops. I'm in the mood for some coffee," Bex stated, we've been in England for only half a day and her accent was already thickening.

I smiled and continued walking with her, my blue and white Nikes leaving imprints in the thin layer of snow. _Footsteps…They could find me._ I banished the thought immediately. Thinking of them was only going to lead to paranoia.

The thick smell of coffee hits me as I entered the small _Starbucks_ that Bex had led me into. I would've enjoyed the lush scent more if my nerves hadn't felt like they were electrocuted, my eyes were scanning everything.

There were only 8 customers here including Bex and me. Two were old ladies chatting and laughing quietly. One was a man in a suit with a briefcase; his anxious brown eyes behind his glasses frequently went to his silver Rolex.

Another was a man with graying hair and bored blue eyes. The last two seemed to be brothers, to be honest—they looked like twins, the only difference was that one was a bit taller and skinnier than the other, both wearing caps—and possible red hair sticking out from under it. I almost felt normal for a second, but that all ended when I felt eyes.

"Cammie," Bex whispered. But I already knew as I sipped my hot chocolate. A single word seemed to pass between her caramel eyes and mine. _Tails._ It was at that point that Bex had headed down the sidewalks and my feet carried me back to where the Henley was. This, in retrospect, was probably the dumbest idea I used in London—so far at least.

_The unexpected always happens. _How did I end up quoting John Steward from Bram Stoker's Dracula? I didn't know. But the phrase was absolutely true anyhow. Unexpected things always happening—that would describe my life perfectly. I didn't say it aloud, because it wasn't necessary. The evidence to prove myself was standing right in front of me.

I could run, but he'd be faster. I could fight, but he'd be better. I could scream, but he'd outsmart me. So I did the only think I _could _do.

"So, how are you enjoying London?" the words were casual and smooth as they played out from my lips—the refreshing chocolate-mint flavor still faintly there.

It was only then that I—vaguely—noticed the snow was falling even more. Snow is a double-edged sword to a chameleon.

The dazzling flakes of snow make for great camouflage. But, if there isn't enough you leave tracks, you leave a trail, you leave evidence plainly giving out your location.

It hit me then. _My footprints. _I almost wanted to use the Lipinski maneuver on myself for my stupidity. But the dark haired man in front of me didn't laugh; he simply gave me a look while I detected the almost microscopic hint of a smile on his face.

"Fine, it's colder than I remember," he makes a point of brushing snow out of the waves of brunette hair, the dark strands almost resembled a shade of ebony.

"I see. I would have thought you were used to the cold or at least snow," The dark haired man in front of me didn't smile, didn't say anything.

"Well, I can see you aren't used to the snow," despite the frost that bit my cheeks I could feel a warm glow radiating from them. I could only image the shades of pink I was turning, probably somewhere between amaranth pink and brink pink. "That was a pretty amateur move, wasn't it? Only a day into winter break and you're slipping?"

I wanted to snap at him. I wanted to say that not everyone could be as amazing at espionage as him. I wanted to say anything, a comeback, an insult—_something_ other than what I _did_ say.

"I know," my breath created a small fog as I spoke. My voice tugging at a confidence I wish I had all the time and not just on occasions. My average eyes met his, my head tilting a bit to see him. "But it's your job to make sure I _don't _slip, isn't it?"

_Of course_, I thought, almost sighing, _my never ending list continues_. "I didn't expect," number 6: I didn't expect to see Joe Solomon in London, smiling and having a strange premonition that he wasn't the only important one here.

"That's right, Ms. Morgan. It is my job," my CoveOps teacher stated, muscular arms crossed over his chest. Training during winter break with Mr. Solomon—definitely something I didn't see coming. The news was swirling around in my head just like the snow. I'll be ready. Because it didn't take an agent to know that Joe "The Wise Guy" Solomon was _very good_ at his job.

Maybe it was the fact that someone as handsome as Mr. Solomon was standing in front of me. Maybe I was getting sick from the cold surrounding me, maybe I just wasn't thinking but I finally realized something. The trail I made to get to my teacher—it was still there. Maybe it was nerves as I walked with Wise Guy, maybe the head of strawberry-blond hair was just an illusion.

_**(Author's Note:) **_Hm…difficult to write the beginning, that was for sure. But this was maybe…I don't know, my fourth or fifth draft? Hard to pick because they all had their strong points. Anyways.

How did you guys like it? Did it meet your expectations? It's boring now but it'll get better, I promise. Were they in character?

Oh and if you're wondering why the first part was in third person and the second was first person, I just felt that I went along with the book. Heist Society was third person limited with Kat and Gallagher Girls was first person with Cammie. So…that's how I'll be doing it as well (maybe some occasional POVs such as Hale).

Good? Bad? Any predictions for what happens next? Tell me in a review and I'll improve (: Thanks for reading, please review.

First SIX people to review will get the sneak peek of chapter 2 (:

~diva~


	2. Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone. It all belongs to Ally Carter.**

_**(Author's Note): **_No, I am NOT dead. I'm sorry, so, so, so very sorry. School's been beating my butt, but NINE DAYS LEFT for me. So I'll be updating ALL my fanfics soon once summer hits and I have more time to write. I'm sorry for being such a bad updater!

I'd like to give this chapter to: paintsellers I mean, WOW! The advice they gave me was so awesome. I mean, AWESOME review :] Thank you paintsellers, this one's for you!

I'd like to thank EVERYONE who has reviewed, alerted, favorites, despite my horrendous updating skills. And I'm very happy that people haven't given up on this story so THANK YOU!

Enjoy :)

**CHAPTER 2: **_**Curiosity Killed the Cat**_

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: THIRD PERSON LIMITED [**_**Katarina Bishop**_**]**

"_**You can leave a family business, but you'll never leave the family," – W.W. Hale the Fifth**_

Kat missed a lot of things. She only seemed to realize that as she and the teenage Adonis beside her glided down the ice of New York City's sidewalks.

The brunette missed the warm taste of her great-uncle's creamy stew. Her petite nose longed for the scent of the cabbage, carrots and other simmering vegetables in cast-iron pots.

Her sense of smell had become too accustomed to the expensive perfume-like soap and herbal shampoos the classic hotels had supplied them with. Kat wistfully wanted to be enveloped in the old and familiar fragrance. The teenager wouldn't even mind hearing old Eddie's gruff voice calling her by her full name. She wanted her cobalt eyes to see his gelled hair, costly suits and lustrous Rolex.

But none of those sights, sounds or scents greeted her as she knocked on the heavy wooden door. Another tap at the door is made by Kat and then another tap and then the fourth attempt. The only slight response to her fist banging the door was the bark of a small dog passing the house.

"I'm guessing he's not home," Hale said, his breath creating a small cloud.

"Then where would he go?" Kat asked, partially to him and partially to herself. The business card that was slipped into the frame wasn't specific. The slanted and cursive writing was aloof and vague; it was more of a riddle than instructions.

"Don't worry, he could be in Paris with your dad," The boy with fair brown hair said, his voice trying to sooth the girl's silent frustration. "We could go to the villa my parents own there." The hazel eyed heir's hand slid into Kat's; his slightly rough thumb caressing calming circles on the back of her sinewy hand.

"No. We have to stay in the city," Kat stated, urging her voice to sound like someone who was in charge and deserved it. The conviction in her words seemed to have been enough for Hale because he nodded, understanding. A very handsome, very Hale grin appeared on his face in a matter of seconds. It was one of those smiles that evoked anyone to beam right back at him.

"What?" her tea rose colored lips attempting (and failing) to contain its amusement, but with Hale's constant beaming, it was hard.

_How can he be so suave and silly at the same time? _Kat pondered. But the line of words crumpled into a crash as the boy in front of her ran his hand through her sepia colored hair. The thick and silky strands slipped through his hands. Another satisfying grin emitted from his movie star face. His tanned fingers held up a dark bobby pin.

"Since, Uncle Eddie isn't in the mood to open the door," he started, crouching down towards the frosted brass door knob. "We'll just have to let ourselves in,"

The pin slipped its way into the slit of the lock, angled a certain way (just like how Kat had taught him). Seconds later a faint metal click was made. The impressed sapphire eyed girl stood back, and watched her rich friend break into her great-uncle's house using her bobby pin.

"I think this is about the time where you say something like 'the pupil has surpassed the teacher.'" Hale whispered. His usual warm, minty scent was infused with the Starbucks coffee he drank on the way there. Luckily for him, Kat loved the smell of coffee. Kat took a glance at the opened front door and another to her "_supposed_ pupil."

"Nah, I think the pupil is still learning." Kat grinned. The lighter shades of blue in her eyes were lighting up and Hale knew she was teasing him. Her Chap Stick coated lips turned up into an entertained smile as she watched Hale bring a tanned hand to his chest, clutching his dark viridian jacket at where his heart was.

"That hurts Kitty Kat!" he exclaimed dramatically. That only made Kat laugh even more. The young billionaire would have happily continued to make his Russian art-thief of a friend laugh, but it was interrupted by—not a voice—but a sound, coming from the house. It was a cliché, horror movie moment.

Wonder and curiosity alit Kat's mind. But, like the saying goes, _"Curiosity killed the cat," _Needless to say, Kat always hated that expression.

* * *

_"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back." _Kat's life revolved around curiosity. It gave her the drive to find out what she was curious about, thus building her personality.

At one point, a very curious, very bold four year old Katarina Bishop set a scheme into action. She was willing to flush the priceless Hope Diamond (that she and her parents snatched from the Smithsonian the week before) down the toilet, if her parents, once again, refuse to tell her where babies came from.

Young Kat had literally dangled the national treasure over the marble toilet with both Bobby and Diana Bishop trying to coax her from contaminating the jewel and condemning it to a sewer. _Good times._

The brunette's sapphire eyes were scanning the insides of the dark house, expecting to hear her full name and the scent of vegetable soup. But nothing greeted her. The business card was practically burning in her jean pocket; the cryptic words were permanently imprinted in her busy mind.

_Dearest Katarina,_

_Connections and trust are the keys. Trust can override law; you must try giving it a chance. Keep your mind open to options or the lock will remain sealed._

_Sincerely,_

_Visily Romani _

Kat couldn't help but think that the message belonged in a fortune cookie. If not for the familiar handwriting, she would have believed the business card came from Chinese take-out.

"So what kind of connections does good ol' Romani mean?" This startled Kat and her hand immediately shot to the side of her, where the card was neatly folded. Hale just beamed in the shadows that the house created.

"Like I said before, you're an excellent thief, but a terrible hider. I mean, under your pillow back at the hotel?"—Hale's grin grew—"Really, Kat?"

"Well, I wanted the Tooth Fairy to know about this too. She must be a great thief, even if her motive is a kid's molar." Kat smiled, she snapped her fingers. "Darn, I forgot to write my phone number on the back of card, she's the kind of connection we need." Hale only laughed at his friend's teasing.

"Yes, because a woman with wings and a bag of stolen baby teeth is exactly what we need." Hale agreed; the humorous light in his eyes was gleaming.

"Don't forget her endless supply of quarters to give for the teeth," Kat said. So there they were, talking about fictional characters they were told about as a child. At least the Tooth Fairy was somewhat relevant; she stole stuff (but, really, was there a difference between steeling teeth and artwork?). But their fairy tale filled conversation came to end when a very familiar, very feminine voice spoke up.

"If you two would just kiss, things would be _so _much easier." The voice alone gave away who it was. Kat didn't need to hear high heels clacking their way towards them. She definitely didn't need to see the outline of a curvy figure in a tight, V-necked top and a designer miniskirt _during the winter_.

"Gabrielle? What are you doing here?" Kat asked, ignoring her earlier comment. Gabrielle's voice still lifted the hairs on the back of Kat's neck, but it had gotten considerably better after their Henley experience (well…almost).

"I was hoping you could answer that question for us." She said smoothly, examining her French tips while chomping away on—what was it? Mint?—gum. But even with her irritable cousin standing there, Kat was still focused.

"Us?" Kat asked, exchanging a glance with Hale, who shrugged as if to say 'I had nothing to do with it.' Hale smiled and continued to walk into the living room, leaving the two cousins to stare at one another.

* * *

Déjà vu. It has two definitions.

1. It is a psychological illusion of having experienced something actually being encountered for the first time.

2. Disagreeable familiarity and sameness: _The new television season had a sense of déjà vu about it—the same old plot and characters with new names._

But another example of definition two would be: _Katarina Bishop walked into a room filled with her teenage crew of junior thieves. A sense of déjà vu overcame her. There was Gabrielle—the fast one, Simon—the smart one, and Angus & Hamish—the devious ones. The last time she'd seen them, they'd been scheming about how to rob the Henley. The question was now, "What will they be scheming now?"_

After no contact whatsoever, most people would have cried "Hi! What's going on?" or something normal. But, the room filled with teenagers was so far from the word normality that they might as well have been sitting on the moon.

"Kat! Hale! You guys should've seen it—" Hamish started excitedly. His cap was tipping over to one side, while his strawberry blonde hair was sticking at strange angles.

"We've got a new bomb, it's even better than the one we used for the Cunningham Case!" Angus finished, a proud grin flashing on his freckled face. Despite the card that was still scorching with curiosity in her pocket, she felt the corners of her mouth turn upward.

"We got the prototype down. We were going to save it for a heist, but—" Hamish grinned, while Angus continued.

"These two really hot girls walked into the _Starbucks_ we were in."—Kat scowled at their sexist description—"We really wanted to plant the bomb there to see their reaction—" It wasn't Hamish who interrupted Angus this time.

"Oh, _please_ tell me you didn't use 'blowing up _Starbucks_' as a way to pick up girls!" Gabrielle's mink colored eyes rolled heavenward. The cheeky grins from the siblings only made Kat's cousin shake her head like a mother.

"We didn't blow the bloody store up; the girls left before we could detonate it." Hamish's tone deflated into disappointment at the mention of the girls leaving, Angus's goofy grin even dimmed out a bit. A laugh was heard from across the spacious living room. Kat's eyes snapped over to where Hale was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed under the coffee table.

"So in grade school, normal guys pulled on their crush's hair. But, with you two,"—Hale's hazel gaze shot between the two brothers—"You plant a bomb near the girl and sometime later, ask her out to dinner." His smile was still implanted on his face, while a familiar boy across the room snickered.

Kat turned her gaze towards the source of the snickering sound. Her azure eyes locked on a mess of dark, almost ebony hair and intellectual-looking glasses.

"Oh and you have a better way of getting a girl's attention, Simon?" Angus said teasingly. At this comment a faint blush painted over his cheeks while the Bagshaws were consumed in guffaws.

"At least he didn't try to _kill _the girls to get their attention." Gabrielle quipped, chomping haughtily on her gum again. The Bagshaw brothers stopped their chuckling long enough to fix twin glares at Gabrielle. It would have looked more intimidating, Kat thought, if they weren't glaring at her _chest_.

"Anyways," Simon started. His wire-rimmed glasses looked up; his face was devoid of any previous blushing. "Could you explain what we're doing here, Kat?"

"Is it a heist?" Hamish inquired. His pastel blue eyes were gleaming with excitement; the glint was mirrored in his eldest brother as they glanced at Kat for more details.

"What did your dad do now?" Gabrielle asked at the same time.

It was instinct and possibly a habit that her reaction was to deny that her father did anything. After all, over the years there were at least two or three people who managed to connect Kat with her father and to bring her in for questioning.

The minx haired girl could even give advice to people on how to deceive an interrogator. If they seem like a softy, Kat could simply force tears to sting her eyes, make your voice as unsteady and frightened as possible along with the classic, a quivering bottom lip.

(Note: if forcing tears is too obvious or ostentatious, attempt to force just enough tears to create, what Gabrielle likes to call them, "Glassy Bambi Eyes." For good measure, tilt your head back as if you were fighting tears, works every time).

Gabrielle rolled her dark eyes, the fake and obnoxiously long eyelashes making the cocoa color of her irises pop. Kat could feel her annoyance leap, but the irritation dropped down.

"Well, if it isn't your dad," Simon said. His voice carried caution, hoping to disarm any tension between the cousins. "Why did you call us here?" Kat's attention whipped away from Gabrielle over to Simon.

"That's the thing. I didn't call you over." Beneath the sweep of soot colored hair that covered his forehead, Kat could just imagine Simon's brow crease into a line.

"But you sent us the plane tickets—each of us." It was Kat's turn for her brow to crease.

"Yeah," Hamish agreed, pulling his gaze away from Gabrielle's exposed calves. Kat ignored that detail though. "There was a letter that came with it saying you had a job for us."

"What?" Hale asked.

"Here," Angus produced a crinkled sheet of paper from his sweatshirt pocket, tossing it to Hale's outstretched hand. His hazel-green eyes dashed over and back at the paper, his eyebrows were raised so high Kat thought they would meet his hairline.

"Well, whoever sent this to you guys is obviously good at forging handwriting. And just so happens to have Kat's handwriting handy." Hale stated. Kat's curiosity peaked and she strode forward to snatch the letter that had, apparently, held her penmanship.

_I've got a job for you guys. Come to Papi's place at 5:30PM in NYC. Remember, don't to be late._

_-K.B._

Kat stared at the sheet of the paper. It looked exactly like her handwriting; it was so alike that she got an eerie feeling in her stomach, threatening to make her lose her balance or quite possibly her lunch.

The way that the loops in the lowercase e's were barely there and that it looked oddly like a c. Even the way that the s's and fives were hard to distinguish was just like her usual chicken scratch.

It even sounded like Kat; straight to the point, no nonsense, a bit bossy, a reminder at the end and the inability to ask for help. But that wasn't what caught her attention or what made her feel like she broke into a veil of sweat when she was dry.

Her eyes met Hale's and the mutual understanding was there.

"I didn't write this." Kat stated. "But whoever did must have known Uncle Eddie personally somehow. No one outside this business knows even one of his pseudonyms, especially one that he keeps so secretly. He _hates _being called 'Papi.'"

"How did he even get that name?" Angus asked curiously.

"Some case in Cuba that involved some hooker claiming he was her husband." Gabrielle waved off the detail as if it was of no importance as both, not surprising, brothers raised their eyebrows.

"So Uncle Eddie's got game?" Hamish said his voice incredulous. A silent shudder went through the two females of the room at the thought of their great-uncle using some prostitute-like girl as his sex toy. Disturbing. Completely and utterly disturbing.

"Gross! So not the point!" Gabrielle yelped, shivering from the thought (just like before, some parts of her shivered a bit longer). For once, Kat agreed with her flirtatious cousin.

"The point is," Kat said looking them in the eyes. "Someone knows more than they're suppose to about us."

"And I'm thinking this someone is Visily Romani." Hale finished nonchalantly.

The Bagshaws' ears visibly perked up, neither of them could hide the devious smiles that meant they were slipping into pyromaniac mode.

Gabrielle's cool demeanor didn't falter, though Kat noticed that her excessive munching on her gum went to silent jawing.

Simon's eyes went to the size of saucer behind his glasses; Kat could almost see the gears of his brain getting ready to evaluate any security system coming their way.

Hale just sat there, glancing at Kat, a silent communication streaming through their gazes. The information was scurrying around in her mind. The mysterious letters. The business card. _Woman in the Spotlight_. Visily Romani.

_Tell them, _Hale seemed to urge. So she did.

* * *

"Welcome to New York's best and most famous art museum; the Agnora Gallery! I'll be your tour guide, call me DeeDee Johnson. I just started working here for the summer. And your name is?" The girl babbled.

Kat forced her polite smile at the American Girl stereotype standing in front of her. Short blonde curls clustered and framed her peach crème complexion; light cheery blue eyes gleamed eagerly. She couldn't be more than sixteen.

Katarina stretched her hand out, the microphone on the collar of her sports jacket. Hale stood confidently next to her, already gazing around the collection of art, but really estimating the perimeter of the wall beside them.

Kat could already predict what he was thinking. How long would it take them to scale the wall from the vent? How many exits are there in this exhibit alone? How many surveillance cameras are there for Simon to deactivate? She should know; those were the questions that were on her mind as well.

Gabrielle was stationed near the gift shop, while Simon walked around the places with the most security guards. The Bagshaws were about 20 meters away from them.

Taking the almost frail hand of the girl—DeeDee, Kat slipped into her role. "Hello, my name is Melanie O'Hara, nice to meet you, too."

DeeDee beamed. _She must be the type of girl who vomited rainbows. _Kat thought.

It was for a split second she saw the tour guide's line of vision shift before turning to Hale to introduce herself. Kat's own eyes darted in the direction where the blond left off. She didn't detect anything other than two kids tugging on a redheaded mother, seven adults with cameras flashing at abstract portraits and statues and a girl in a gray, baggy sweatshirt with dirty blonde hair staring at a Picasso.

"Let's begin our tour!" DeeDee exclaimed with true zeal, her enthusiastic smile on her face. But Kat wasn't focused on her, because the moment DeeDee's voice rang musically across the walls she noticed a figure speeding their way out of the room and into the next. Tilting her head almost imperceptibly, the babbling of DeeDee distant from her ears, she observed that the girl with dirty blonde hair was nowhere to be found.

* * *

_**(Author's Note): **_Just saying, adding DeeDee was LAST MINUTE. Hope you like that decision. I've been thinking…after getting the wonderful feedback, would you like to swap the POVs around? So, since this chapter was all KAT the next would be all CAM and then the one after Cammie would be about Kat.

What do you think? **I won't update until I know for a certain from you guys**. I'll include a summary from each previous chapter so everyone's caught up if that helps. So please tell me in a review if you'd like an update.

I've gotten a few PM's asking if _Woman in the Spotlight _is a real painting, and the answer is no. I made it up. But remember the painting. It's important to the story.

Well, first FIVE reviewers will get the sneak peek! Please REVIEW!

~diva~


	3. Surprise Me

_**(Author's Note): **_Disclaimer: Ally Carter owns both Gallagher Girls Series and Heist Society, I do not.

Whoa. I didn't update for exactly a MONTH. ): sorry about that folks, been trying to split up my writing time between all of my stories (yeah…not working so well). But, there are progress reports on my profile for my stories (just scroll all the way down). I'll most likely update the reports every time I update a chapter. So…yeah.

**THANK YOU** TO _**EVERYONE**_ WHO HAS REVIEWED THIS STORY! You're all awesome (:

Thanks to Belinda! (: I was reminded to write 'cause of you! And again, thanks to all the readers/reviewers out there that are supporting this story. I really enjoy writing it because of you guys! (:

Now: ENJOY!

* * *

**CHAPTER 3: _Surprise Me_  
**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

**POINT OF VIEW: FIRST PERSON [Cameron Ann Morgan]**

"_**Yesterday was history. Tomorrow, however, is still a mystery. But, today is a gift; spend it wisely, because there's a reason why it's called the 'present'" – Rachel Morgan**_

I've been debriefed by the CIA in Langley. I still remember every detail. Emotionless Polygraph Guy, the guy with the bad nose incident and terrible eyesight (he said I look exactly like my mom), and the silver seal of the CIA with the motto I knew by heart: _And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free_.

You don't usually forget your first debriefing or visit to a CIA base. It was a milestone in my young life. It was the young spy's equivalent to a young girl's first bra or period. In short, I was used to it (just like the undergarments and "monthly gifts"). So, I was proud to say that I wasn't freaked out when I stepped into CIA Base 15. One of the few bases stationed in England.

Yes, that's right. I was in a CIA base. Again. And surprisingly, not getting debriefed. Instead, I was striding down a hall way with Mr. Solomon to my right and was preparing for his reasoning as to why I was brought here. But, I couldn't help but think that it had something to do about the terrorist group that was hunting me down.

But, of course, I could just be paranoid.

We rounded a corner to face a steel door. "Time to start your training."

_Training?_ I rushed to arrange my face to a very calm, very cool, and very Bex-like expression. Apparently I hadn't been fast enough.

"Think of this as extra tutoring, Cammie." And it was like it; that is, if your tutor was a highly experienced agent of the CIA that was aiming lightening fast roundhouse kicks at your face.

And so, that was how we began our training-slash-tutoring.

For three days.

**Tutoring Day 003 at 16:14 hours: The Operative noticed that "Wise Guy" (from this point on, referred to as The Subject) was not perspiring nor panting as hard as The Operative herself, though showed subtle signs of being tired. The Operative went in for an axle kick that successfully landed on The Subject's chest. **

**Tutoring Day 003 at 16:15 hours: The Operative noted to get her right foot check for any signs of fracturing, because she swore she heard a crack. The Operative also noted that The Subject's chest might very well be part metal.**

I had to say, I _did _learn quite a bit, like how I needed to twist my hip a little further on my kicks, how I needed to tuck my chin a little more when I did a jab-cross combo and the fact that Joe Solomon was _very _accurate when it came to fighting.

"Your offenses are good." Mr. Solomon commented, recuperating from my kick. "Your reflexes are fast as well,"—he charged at me, spinning on his heel and poising his arms in a manner I didn't recognize—"But, you need to work on your defenses."

And as if to prove his point, his right first connected with my stomach and his leg swept swiftly beneath my feet. I landed hard on the padded floor (that may as well have been tiles), my gaze meeting a ceiling and winced as I moved to a sitting position.

(Note: Ask Liz about remedies and/or treatments for a potentially bruised butt)

"Okay, let's start again then," I said through gasps of air. You'd think I would be completely winded from this exercise (which I was) but Gallagher Girls always have high stamina (if you're best friends/roommates/sparring partners with Bex, you're going to need it).

"That'll be all for today, Cammie."

"But, didn't you say that it was your job to get me ready? I need to train," I persisted, though half my muscles were protesting fiercely while my backside wasn't much help either. Mr. Solomon simply leaned against the wall in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest. He almost smiled (the keyword being _"almost"_).

"I know, but you're going to need some of that energy for something later today, that is, if what Patricia told me was true," he said calmly and with a turn of his heel he left the gym, the sweating air, and a very astonished, very bruised Gallagher Girl sitting on the floor.

_Patricia—as in Professor Buckingham? _

_

* * *

_

I stared out the window of the dorm room The Agency assigned me to. The CIA had many conveniences, a room for a girl in hiding being one of them. It wasn't the Ritz but it wasn't a dirty motel either. In appearance, I compared the room to me. The lackluster of everything matched me; that was for sure.

I wasn't fishing for compliments when I state that. I'm not like the girls who start screeching about how their hair becomes a fuzz ball in the humidity when they could have sold shampoo to a bald man. Or those girls that preach on about how fat they were, when people could mistaken them for models.

I stated that I was plain because it was the truth. I wouldn't have it any other way; it would be tough for a pavement artist if her Subject walked up and asked for her number (that would be the job for an agent that specialized in Honeypotting).

I glanced at the snow that continued to fall from the clouds that looked dark but hurt your eyes when you looked up. And to think, I could have been ice-skating with Bex at that moment or drinking hot chocolate with Mrs. Baxter while Mr. Baxter teased her about something and she would smack his arm.

Instead I was sitting in a monotonous room, waiting for whatever "news" Professor Buckingham informed Mr. Solomon about to be announced. Whether it was good news or bad was something I wasn't so sure about.

The Pros and Cons of Being Personally Trained-Slash-Tutored By Joe "Wise Guy" Solomon

PRO: Learning how your (hopefully) future workplace functions on a daily basis, feeling like a nostalgic and twisted version of "Take-Your-Son-Or-Daughter-To-Work-Day."

CON: Thoughts of Joe Solomon becoming your parent because of that nostalgic "Take-Your-Son-Or-Daughter-To-Work-Day" feeling (I mean, hello, half of the school thought he was hot—I being one of them, once upon a time).

PRO: Getting to see new techniques and maneuvers before everyone else in your grade.

CON: Being the target of the new techniques and maneuvers and having no idea how to defend yourself thus getting your butt kicked (or in my case, bruised).

PRO: Learning to become faster, stronger and smarter to be ready to face an ancient, grudge-holding terrorist group.

CON: There's always that chance that you won't become fast, strong or smart _enough_. Don't you just hate doubt?

"Ms. Morgan," My eyes whipped from the window where my breath collected on the glass to Mr. Solomon. He was leaning against the doorframe with three other adults alongside him. "Pack your bags and Ms. Hanncock here,"—he nodded to the blond woman that I recognized as my P&E instructor—"will be with you at exactly 6:20, don't be late."

I glanced at the two other unidentified adults and recognition hit me, just like with Ms. Hanncock, as I spotted Professor Buckingham. My eyes flitted to the other figure behind Mr. Solomon to find a man in a black button up paired with black slacks. He wasn't the most handsome nor was he ugly. He wasn't too short or too tall. A new type of recognition hit me; the man in black was like me—a pavement artist.

Then my gaze met Mr. Solomon's, there was a conviction there that made me not question his orders. So I simply asked, "Okay then, where are we going?"

There was the slightest movement at the corner of his mouth and I was faced with a small smirk. A memory of another boy who wouldn't stop smirking entered my mind before I buried it back into my subconscious.

"You'll figure it out once we get there." He said vaguely and pushed himself up.

With a small, almost unnoticeable flash of black, I looked to see that the man was gone. He was professional, no doubt. My two female teachers took that as their cue to leave, following the direction of the pavement artist, leaving me and my favorite mentor.

"What, no hint?" I asked, not really expecting one to come my way. At this, his smile became more prominent.

"All you need to know is to pack some more sweaters and scarves than usual, Cammie." Suddenly I wanted to ignore his urgency from before and begin my questioning. So I did.

"So we're going somewhere cold? Is it in England? And who was that man that was behind you, another CIA age—"

"That's all you get, Cammie." He stated as if talking to a child, as if he wasn't talking to a Gallagher Girl. As he spun on his heel he added an afterthought. "Remember, don't be late."

With that note said, Joe Solomon left my CIA suite, leaving more questions than answers. I was _definitely_ not going to be late.

* * *

There were two sides of the law: the good and the bad; the members of the Alphanet and those the Alphanet put in prison; the ones that fought for justice and those who fought against it.

I was being escorted by Ms. Hanncock to the rendezvous point with Mr. Solomon, but I couldn't shake off the fact that I felt like a criminal being shipped off to her dusty cell. I may as well have been in an orange jumper with numbers printed on the back instead of my plain t-shirt and jeans. All that was actually kind of ironic, me being the spy-in-training and all.

"We're here," I stared blankly at the room before me. "Mr. Solomon will pick you in an exactly an hour, until then you're to be here with these two." Ms. Hanncock instructed. I turned my gaze to the two middle aged women standing inside. "Have fun, Cameron," my P&E teacher smiled.

I gazed back at the plaque that was above the door before the two women, a brunette and a redhead, whisked me into the room and sat me down on a leather chair.

_The Division of Identifying Characteristic Removal, _I thought. Did they mean plastic surgery? To change my appearance completely? Did the paranoid Professor Smith sit in this very spot as these two women changed him?

"Hello, Ms. Morgan, I am Agent Barnes, but please refer to me as Leah for this next hour," the brunette, apparently named Leah Barnes, greeted. "And that over there, is Agent Schwartz but she likes being called Amy." The redhead smiled and nodded.

"Exactly what are you going to do to me, Agent Barn—I mean, Leah?" I asked.

Because really, I didn't want to come out there with my light brown hair dyed black with a new nose on my face. At this the two women just laughed.

"Oh it won't be too severe; temporary at the most." Amy said with a smile that reached her blue eyes. I nodded my head, partially relieved and partially suspicious.

"Okay, let's start with your hair." I suddenly had a déjà vu moment, feeling the similarities between the current situation and when I was preparing for a date with Josh. It was at that moment I just knew that Macey McHenry would be the one standing there in place of Leah and Amy once we graduated—_if _we graduated.

* * *

An hour of hair products, extensions, and make-up later, I saw the two women look as if they were going to swoon and sigh. I whipped my head around to see my escort.

"Time to get going, Ms. Morgan." I stepped off the leather chair, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

I starting fingering my hair, not feeling a difference but knowing one was there. Throughout my (extension added) light brown hair were long streaks of blond. They kept my eye color the same but added more make up than usual to my eyelashes. The two were right; it wasn't anything drastic.

"Why was all this necessary?" I asked as I followed him out.

"We don't want anyone recognizing you on your mission, now do we?" If I wasn't trained to be calm in the face of danger (or surprise) then I would've fell on my very sore, very bruised butt.

"Mission?" I questioned.

"I didn't teach you so much in the past few days so you could sit back and forget them, Cammie. You learn by doing, thus the mission." I gripped my suitcase with determination. I wasn't going to fail this test.

A right, two lefts and seventeen minutes later, I was no longer next to my dark haired CoveOps teacher. Instead I was between Professor Buckingham and the Pavement Artist in Black on a runway with a large plane bearing the CIA symbol in front of me.

But the shock didn't end there.

"Hey Gallagher Girl, ready for New York?"

* * *

_**(Author's Note): **_And there you have it. Nasty little cliffy, ain't it? Well just to clear some things up:

-Cammie's new appearance is just basically make-up to cover any freckles, moles, etc. and that fact that she now has light brown hair with sun streaks in them (got the idea of that from Max from _Maximum Ride _by James Patterson).

-Solomon's been training her somewhere in London where the CIA base was. For three days.

-And I think you guys already know who's at the end of the chapter, so I won't say anything.

-Ms. Hanncock is actually the real gym teacher in the GG series (I reread the first book and stumbled upon that!)

Were they in character? Are things getting a little more exciting? Is Cammie's role in all of this getting clearer (if it's not, I'll try to make it even clearer)? Anyways, if there is any confusion PLEASE ASK A QUESTION, I'd like all my readers to read this without confusion (:

First…let's say...EIGHT reviewers will get a sneak peek! Please review~

~diva~

P.S. I've just become a Beta, so if you'd like me to beta any of your stories, leave me a PM or you could say so in your review (:


	4. Early Thief Gets the Painting

**Disclaimer: Ally Carter owns both The Gallagher Girls Series and The Heist Society Novels, I sadly do not.**

_**(Author's Note)**_**: **I'M SO SORRY. TERRIBLY, TERRIBLY SORRY. I haven't updated for OVER a year. But I'm pretty much out of commission when anything school happens. So I'M SO SORRY. And the fact I have to work on my other stories as well…and how I get ideas for so many other series and just…ugh. I wouldn't be surprised if nobody was reading this. I have lousy, none-existent updating skills, I'm sorry.

**BUT TO THOSE WHO REVIEWED & CONTINUED TO READ LAST CHAPTER, THANK YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH; IT'S MUCH APPRECIATED! You all are so incredibly amazing! I can't express my gratitude enough!**

There is also a poll on my profile: on _**WHICH STORY SHOULD I UPDATE FIRST?**_ Please consider checking that out if you are familiar with my other stories, it'd help a lot with time management.

So now, please enjoy this chapter!

(oh yes, and I was planning on switching chapters so it would be: Kat POV, Cam POV, to Kat POV, but as I wrote this, I realized Cammie's POV is necessary for this chapter to work)

* * *

**CHAPTER 4: **_**Early Thief Gets the Painting**_

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: THIRD PERSON LIMITED [**_**Katarina Bishop**_**]**

"_**Being in the business is very much like starting a war; it's easy to start and get into, but it's hard as hell to end and escape. Take my beautiful daughter as an example." –Bobby Bishop**_

_"Let's begin our tour!" DeeDee exclaimed with true zeal, her enthusiastic smile on her face. But Kat wasn't focused on her, because the moment DeeDee's voice rang musically across the walls she noticed a figure speeding their way out of the room and into the next. Tilting her head almost imperceptibly, the babbling of DeeDee distant from her ears, she observed that the girl with dirty blonde hair was nowhere to be found._

Art Thieves and Chaos had a very bittersweet relationship.

Chaos, panic, sloppiness—disorganization in general—concealed thieves when they went in to make the snatch. Like on one sunny, August day in 1993, the only disturbance in the museum was a child whose story was that he had wandered from the tour his specialty school arranged at the National Gallery. He had almost knocked over two statues, sending the guards around him into frenzy, trying the catch the mentally troubled boy.

Seventeen minutes. And _The Scream_ was swapped with a replica. But if that boy was so "challenged" why is it that he reappeared, in a wig, a day later—beating a friend in a game of chess. It was that type of recklessness that stole the guard's attention and slammed that smug smile on that young boy.

But then there was the kind of disorganization that made laser grids in museums suddenly reactivate four seconds before they should have, creating a sudden amputation. The kind that slows the thief down, makes the police, the FBI, Interpol—whatever group of authority it was—seeming a hell of a lot faster than before. The kind that got in your way.

The kind that caught up with Katarina Bishop when she entered the Agnora Gallery.

* * *

"I still think Gabrielle should have designed your outfit. Hamish and Angus were so excited too," Hale whispered in her ear, trailing behind the bubbly blond—DeeDee, Kat reminded herself—as Kat snapped another picture. Why was it that she had the feeling Hale would have been just as excited as the Bagshaws?

When the tour guide turned her attention to another person in the group, Kat backhanded Hale's chest. "The point was to not to draw attention, right? A miniskirt wouldn't have helped."

"Only if the guards were perverted," Hale pointed out and she rolled her eyes. Snap. Another picture. But something was off about the picture when Kat viewed it. She had taken a shot of a statue with an air vent sticking directly in the upper right corner, but something else was caught on the small screen of the camera.

Just like a schoolgirl, Kat's hand shot up. "Uh, Ms. Johnson?—"

"DeeDee," she corrected.

"_DeeDee, _What's that exhibit over there?" Kat pointed to a door innocently. DeeDee looked over and she practically bounced on her small, part-of-the-uniform heels.

"Did you hear about the painting that was found in Italy a while ago—_A Woman in the Spotlight_?" DeeDee asked excitedly. Neither Kat nor Hale flinched and both nodded for her to continue. "They found another painting!"

Kat stumbled a bit on her next step, but Hale's arm steadied her before anyone could notice. Hale looked genuinely surprised and questioned. "Really?"

The tour guide nodded, her golden curls bouncing in a way that reminded Kat of a French doll. "Uh-huh! And it's going to be here in the museum! They're still decorating the exhibit so no one's been able to see it other than the decorators and Mr. Ackerman—the curator."

"So you don't know what it looks like? Can't the employees see it?" Kat asked innocently—hoping to make her tone more _slumber-party-gossip _than _FBI-interrogation. _Please note that Kat hasn't been to many sleepovers (in other words: none).

DeeDee wasn't fazed by her urgency and swished her yellow tresses in confirmation. "No employees at all. Only the people working on the exhibit."

Kat nodded while Hale looked around the room again. Another question was asked and DeeDee answered it eagerly. Though she was being kind, Kat couldn't help but find her peppiness agitating at times. Hale turned his gaze questioningly towards her and she simply handed him the camera. Her blue eyes bore into his before flittering around the museum aimlessly.

It didn't take a genius to know what Kat was trying to emphasize. When Hale's eyes slid across the screen he didn't widen his eyes, but his back stiffen ever so slightly and that was all Kat needed to detect to know that he'd seen it too. He'd saw someone slip through the door of the exhibit.

No one but the professional designers and curator were to be in that room. Not one person was to stray from the clumps of art-admiring-tourists in that soon-to-be exhibit. DeeDee made that clear—as did the sign that was placed on the door handle.

Unless the dirty-blonde with the gray baggy sweatshirt from before was an interior designer or Mr. Ackerman cross-dressing, then, Kat and her crew weren't the only thieves in the building.

* * *

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: FIRST PERSON [**_**Cameron Ann Morgan**_**]**

"_**Fool me once, shame on you. Fooled me twice? That so won't happen." —Rebecca [Bex] Baxter**_

It was a day for surprises. The first thing I was surprised with was the state of the locked exhibit I had just slipped into.

If I had to describe the room in one word, it would have been 'incomplete.' The halls reeked with the smell of drying paint, the air was cold and empty and wooden boards scattered the laminated ground. Even as my sneakers moved soundlessly across the mahogany floorboards, I could already tell how the designers wished the exhibit would turn out. They wanted _La Femme de Pouvoir _as their centerpiece, an entire wall with only the painting hanging on it. Large circular tables were scattered along the fringe of the room with wine red tablecloths, smaller tables holding cans of paint dotted the floor as well.

My attention narrowed in on the portrait—_The Woman of Power_. The resemblance to _A Woman in the Spotlight _was the first thing you notice. It was the same girl with light brown hair with curls. From what I saw in the previous painting, the age of the woman was unknown. In this painting, she almost looked my age—in her late teens. The scene showed her in room, the wooden ceiling tapering to a point above her head, as if she were in a tower. In the very center was a window, the light pouring through it telling me it was during the day. The girl—her curly hair pulled back into a rather disheveled up-do, a ghost of how fancy it was, had her back to the artist, the painting capturing a moment where she was half-turning.

My eyes surveyed the room automatically and meticulously. Cameras? Lasers? Anything?

"And you're all sure that there is no security in this room, at all?" I was greeted with a buzz crackling in my ear.

"That's right—" Zach. My eyes narrowed, even if he wasn't standing in front of me, I had a feeling he could see me anyhow. I twisted the plain silver ring around my finger, turning the tracking device embedded into the fake diamond on. The small comfort of knowing that Solomon and Zach would know exactly where I was filled me.

"—isn't that a bit suspicious?"

"Of course it is. We weren't the ones who disabled everything."

Placidly, calmly covering the alarm bells blaring in my brain, I said, "I see. And would you mind telling me who did?"

Now, where's the fun in that?"

"Which is where you come in, Chameleon." The voice belonged to Solomon this time. "You're objective is to infiltrate the enemy, once you've done that—" All I could hear was the sound of static, an image of a screen going through a seizure of gray, black and white popping up in my mind.

"Wise Guy? Are you there?" My tone wavered between urgency and panic—was it something with the Circle, had they found Solomon? The connection in my comms unit wavered even more than my voice had—blinking in and out, Solomon and Zach's voices alternating along with it. It got to the point where I couldn't discern which commands belonged to whom.

"—They're here—"

"—signal disconnected—outside—"

"—keep watch of the subject! Chameleon!—"

"—lagher Girl—painting—_Go!_"

Outside in the hallways, I heard a shrill siren and baffled shouts of burly security guards. My eyes latched onto the painting before sliding across the room, seeing moving shadows. Analyzing the situation as the crackling in my comms unit died down, I watched as the shadows clumped together into a group—the sound of thumping feet echoed into my ears—two people, three, four? It was definitely four. Grabbing the painting would be too sloppy, along with possible damage to it as well—it wasn't an option. As whispering voices coupled with the thumping feet, I slid towards one of the round tables, my knees grazing the tiled floor and into the wine red tablecloth. A small voice in my mind mused that I felt like a toddler, hiding under the table.

A voice beyond the red cloth stopped me. "I guess Kat was wrong, no one's here." My mind raced with information like a computer: a male voice. He couldn't have been too old considering the pitch, and his tone didn't seem like a mindless, bloodthirsty, killing machine.

_Good_, I thought dazedly, _that's good._

"I guess the girl bolted when she heard the alarm," a second voice guessed. A guy too—around my age.

The sound of shuffling feet and a pause later. "Kat was worried for nothing then—the girl was an amateur." The voice was too high with too much estrogen to be male. I had heard this tone enough with Macey—this girl was rolling her eyes. "Hurry up and grab the painting."

"Aye, aye, ma'am!" the last voice chirped—a teasing, masculine tone lilted with a thick Scottish accent.

"Oh shut up, Angus."

The last voice—Angus—laughed. "Seems like The Boy Who Cried Wolf worked out well enough."

"Of course it did. A Sleeping Beauty would've been overkill—do you know how hard it is to get a female camel from the Sahara at _this_ time of year?"

The smell of sawdust and paint was thick under the small table. My fingers gently parted the curtain of red, watching four figures in the dim lighting. I saw a mess of strawberry blond hair and my mind refused to let me look away. A memory floated to the surface. Back in London with Bex, when we were getting hot chocolates and coffee.

Two redheaded twin boys.

And one of them was here.

"Put the painting in here, Marcus is waiting outside with a limo." A boy with light brown hair held open a canvas bag large enough to fit the painting snugly in. The redhead nodded with a quick, 'yeah' and I surmised his name was Angus. I watched as _The Woman of Power _disappeared behind the beige of the bag. The girl looking back seemed to stare at me challengingly as it sank behind the edge of the bag.

I thought fast. I yanked the ring off my finger, knowing it was still activated, and aimed for the edge of the bag. Then with my last hope in between my fingers I flicked it like a bottle cap. It soared silently through the air and I nearly jumped up and cheer from beneath the table as I saw its silver streak fall into the sack.

"What was that?"

My heart stopped.

The boy with light hair looked at the dark haired girl. "What was what?"

"I thought I saw something, I don't know, glitter—"

Angus laughed. "Wow, girls truly love jewelry that much?"

"—no, I meant, I thought I saw something _shine_."

"Did your mum cut off your credit card or something, Gabrielle?" Angus asked, his eyes clearly amused. The girl—Gabrielle—scowled at him and with a flick of her long dark hair, the topic was obviously close. That didn't stop Angus, of course, from laughing. And not just a chuckle either, but rather boisterous knee-slapping laughter.

My eyes narrowed on the dark-haired boy with glasses, his hand touching the side of his head—a comms unit, maybe?

"Guys, Kat says we've got three minutes and twenty seconds to get out here, let's go."

The four quickly filed out without another word. I silently slinked across the wall after them.

So when they walked out of the Agnora Gallery exactly two minutes and fifty-six seconds and piled into the long luxurious limousine with the help of a man with gray hair and gray eyes, I improvised the second the chauffeur disappeared back into his driver's seat.

I grabbed the truck, lifted it up lightly and hopped in.

As the minutes ticked by and I mapped every direction the limousine made (straight, smooth road, turn left, then right, go straight for 12 minutes, then turn left once again), I laid crouched inside the trunk. Miscellaneous boxes were nested here, along with a suitcase full of high-class woman's clothing. I glanced at the clothes when I unzipped the bag and found that this woman didn't even seem older than me. I dug deeper into bag and my fingertips felt the smooth sensation of leather. I grabbed and pulled it out: a passport. I flipped it open.

Second surprise of the day happened as I was fumbled through someone's wardrobe in the back of a limousine (or third surprise, if you count the whole 'hopping-and-hitching-a-ride-inside-the-trunk-of-a-rich-theive's-car).

_Fake. _It was a fake passport. It wasn't easy to tell that it wasn't someone else's identity, but I knew well enough from making a few of my own (for extra credit purposes, of course) that it would have been authentic enough to fool even the most careful of security guards.

I analyzed the passport for a moment with respect to the one who could have faked this. I swept the thought aside and glanced at the name: Melanie O'Hara was it?

Taking a deep breath in the stuffy trunk, I turned my head to see a plaque at my side. Had I not been looking for anything, I wouldn't have noticed it. What I saw made my eyes grow as large and round as the Moon.

Surprise Number Four: Hale Industries, one of the largest electronic businesses to shower the world with high-tech phones, was helping the thieves who just stole a priceless painting. And most likely stole its sister painting, _The Woman in the Spotlight_.

The limousine came to a halt and the sound of doors opening resounded loud and clear in my ears. I briefly wondered which was more shocking: finding out one of the most wealthiest and global businesses were on the same side as the people the entire Alphanet were dead set on arresting or finding a highly trained teenage spy stowed away in the back of a limo with hair that was probably as big as Einstein's by then.

It was a day for surprises, after all.

If it was a day for surprises for the thieves or for me, I didn't really know.

But as I heard voices growing louder and footsteps growing closer, I suppose I was going to find out soon enough.

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_**(Author's Note)**_: I apologize for the shortness of it! But I was hoping to update this as soon as I got to a good stopping point. Well, what do you guys think? **Please Review **and tell me what you think, reviews helping inspire me to write (I'll write anyways, but your reviews are like pep talks to me!)

So any questions? I may have confused some of you so feel free to ask and I will do my best to explain.

**SIDE NOTE:** I loved Uncommon Criminals, how about you guys? Oh dear lord, it was AMAZING. Even better than the first, if I do say so myself. If anyone would like to freak out/discuss the book with me, feel free to PM me or say so in the review. It was AWESOME. And also the fact there will be a Heist Society movie? Oh goodness. THANK YOU ALLY CARTER. YOU ARE BRILLIANT.

**Another side note:** As you can tell, this crossover story was written before Uncommon Criminals & Only the Good Spy Young had come out. So facts will be different, but I'll do my best to meld everything together, I promise!

**How do you guys feel on me giving out previews? Would you still like that to happen? If so, write that in your review and I will send you a preview in return. I think this is the least I could do for neglecting this story. **

Thanks again for the support you guys, it' means a lot!(: Please take the time to review!

-diva

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**P.S. **To all the people who should have gotten a preview of this chapter and didn't, I apologize for not giving you one before (mostly 'cause of the extreme lateness of this chapter) HOWEVER, I WILL GIVE YOU AN AUTOMATIC PREVIEW FOR CHAPTER FIVE because of it. This message is for the following reviewers: **xWhite Winged Angelx**, Magical-Lux, **Perfect Bite**, _huntress35_, **bookworm1256**, Meneldur, **Gallaghergirl396**, and _Last to Cross_


	5. The Spy Wants What the Spy Wants

**Disclaimer: Ally Carter owns these two novels that I'm toying with; however, the plot is originally mine. [but sadly Zachary Goode & W.W. Hale the Fifth belong to Ally Carter, lucky author, isn't she? –sigh-]**

_**(Author's Note)**_**: **It wasn't TERRIBLY long…better than a year, right? But I'm sorry for the wait! I was a bit lost, then found myself with this story again…then was lost again. Then went to do some power work with my story: To Spy Or Not To Spy but, I'm back! And know what to do with this story! WOOT!

But **THANK YOU** all who gave me amazing feedback! ALL OF YOU ARE LOVELY! (: And we broke the 100 mark, AWESOME!

Hopefully you'll all like this chapter! And I'm eager to hear what all of you think!

Also: I'm so sorry if I hadn't responded to some of your reviews! And if I responded twice, since I forgot about the first response, forgive me! It's just hard to keep track, I'm pretty scatterbrained—_if you could please tell me what review I hadn't replied to, I'd do so immediately!_ (and no, it's not a trouble, I honestly feel really guilty for not getting back to you guys, so PLEASE! Tell me.)

_Reply to Anonymous Reviewer: _zammielicious: Who do I like better? Oh gosh. That's a tough one. I love Zach so very much, but I have trouble trusting him most of the time. With Hale, I can trust, but I love mysterious guys…ahhh. Um, I love both, but perhaps I like Zach a little better through…seniority? Zach is a spy. That's pretty hot (same with international art thief though…) Okay. On with the chapter before I continue to bore you all with my blabbing on and on and on…

**SIDE NOTE: **Any anonymous viewers, who have a question they'd like me to answer, feel free to ask in a review! I'll answer it like I just did zammielicious'! (:

Enjoy the chapter!

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**CHAPTER 5: **_**The Spy Wants What the Spy Wants**_

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: THIRD PERSON LIMITED [**_**Katarina Bishop**_**]**

"_**You can steal many things, but you can never steal trust like you would do a precious emerald, that you must earn. Only a good thief would know this."—Nadia Bishop**_

"Is Marcus taking the limo back to your manor?" Kat asked, her eyes following the sleek limousine as it drove away. The thought of getting her Melanie O'Hara baggage out of the trunk had entered her mind on the ride back—the cover was beginning to wear down to its expiration date. "I've been thinking of getting rid of Melanie O'Hara for maybe…Victoria Weldon?"

Hale made a rectangle with his fingers, as if looking at her through the lens of a camera: "I'd prefer the name…Vera for you."

The bright eyed girl made a face, as if the gust of wind carried the scent of a junkyard, "Vera works about as well for me as _Weldon _does for you…I don't believe I've asked you that one before…Wilke?"

"I can't believe you could call me that; I happen to love Lincoln." Hale exclaimed, his hand pressed through his leather jacket to his wide chest, as if she had pierced his heart with the guess. They were walking up the steps to the brownstone house, the others already hurrying into the house due to the cold (never had Kat seen Simon run that fast before).

Kat laughed, correcting him: "That's John _Wilkes_ Booth, with an _s_." Hale waved it off as she and he entered the doorway, the heat enveloping them immediately from the impending blizzard the dark grey skies were foretelling. A voice hollered at them to shut the door before he froze a certain part of his anatomy off. Hale responded back with a: "You can't freeze off what you never had, man!" But closed the door nonetheless as the voice shouted something rather rude back. In Italian, of course.

Boys.

"But fortunately, I'm not a Weldon or a Wilke." Hale said, the threats from the other room sliding right off him, patting off the small snowflakes that landed on his broad shoulders. Kat unzipped her jacket just as the sound of the local news snapped on, the sound of crackling fire (that sounded too loud for her comfort, especially with Hamish and Angus frolicking around), and Gabrielle's heels clacking up the stairs followed.

Hale passed the painting to Kat. "We're home."

Normal girls probably came home with a bag full of freshly picked skirts and dresses from a local boutique or a popular mall, Kat thought. Normal girls probably stepped through the doorway, looked around for nothing particular, before plopping down on the couch to watch the latest gossip unravel on a television screen or whipping out their cell phones to send text messages to everyone she knew.

It was already determined long ago that Kat would never be a normal girl (and it took sneaking into an exclusive prep school, getting framed by her cousin, and having a run in with the family whom she had run away from).

So when she stepped into her Uncle's brownstone house, her bag wasn't made of paper or plastic, but sturdy blank canvas, and the interior of it wasn't full of silky scarves or cute wedges but rather a painting created by an anonymous artist. Normal girls also didn't scan their house for anything out of place, so of course, that's what Kat did just as she hung her coat on the rack.

And as she analyzed the living room, everything from the elegant, dark wine-colored curtains, to a polished fireplace, to the leather furniture—she saw that the ottoman had been moved a few inches to the left from its original position and that on the wooden-and-glass coffee table sat a brown package that wasn't there before. She handed the painting off to Simon.

"Uncle Eddie didn't come home early, had he?" Hale inquired his eyes also on the package. Simon set the painting down next to the ottoman, leaving the room for a glass of water.

After ascending the stairs, her coat gone, Gabrielle perched herself on the corner of the coffee table daintily, arms folded and legs crossed. "He's in Australia for some type of sculpture, he asked me to meet him down there sometime in a few weeks. I believe he's doing a Ring Around the Rosie."

That was enough to stop the Bagshaws from delving into and emptying out Uncle Eddie's refrigerator to cringe. Kat couldn't really blame them—the thought and image of her Uncle in leather pants did that to a person. But, for God's sake, Kat prayed that someone _else _would be the one with the blonde wig. Outside the window, the snow slanted as the wind blew violently, making the house creak and moan in protest.

Strong hands grabbed the box, holding it at arm's length, as if it was going to blow up in his face. Hale faced her, a small smile on his face. "Would you like to do the honors, or should I?"

Silently receiving the package, Kat ripped the seal off easily, opening the box as the others waited around eagerly. A pause. Kat's bright eyes blinked, not really expecting it. Gabrielle's toe began to tap incessantly, her impatience obvious in her stance: "Well, Kat, what is it?"

Simon had returned, his drink on the coffee table, and was watching with curious and eager eyes.

"_Welcome to Romania, A Dummy's Guide to Romanian Culture, The Birth of Dracula_," Kat read aloud, puzzled eyes narrowed on the box in front of her. The pamphlets and books were stacked high in the box, her hands taking them out carefully. "These are tour guides to Romania."

"Who'd send Uncle Eddie send _these_?" Gabrielle asked, her manicured fingers pinching a book reading _Dracula Jokes__, _the _"Q: Who does Dracula get his letters from? A: His FANG club!" _prominent in bright yellow, she held it out, away from her—like she had just pulled a dead fish from the box and not a cheesy booklet.

Emptying the box, Kat found a folded piece of cloth at the bottom. At the sight of the navy, yellow and red stripes, she knew it was the Romanian flag, picking it up something fluttered to the carpeted floor. The white card was a stark contrast against the dark color of the carpet. A small message scrawled in a familiar penmanship with an all too familiar name.

_Find it & get it._

As Kat opened the flag to its full length, something else fell from the flag to the floor; Hale picked it up. It was a photograph folded in half.

"Hey, you guys…" Hamish's voice called from the other room, footfalls thumping rapidly towards us. The younger Bagshaw ran into the living room, looking rattled. "You may want to see this."

Clutching the card in her hand, Kat and the rest rushed into the other room through the kitchen. The family room was the one room in the house with a wide flat screen sitting on the wall. As they entered, Angus shot up from his seat, pointing excitedly at the screen, the sandwich in his mouth muffling his words. But Kat didn't bother to decipher what her friend was saying, the TV spoke for itself.

Kat looked down at the card sharply—_Find it & get it._

Romani had impeccable timing.

A woman with long black hair in a white pantsuit and coat was reporting outside, a slight breeze carrying her curly hair and the cascading white snowflakes. Behind the reporter stood an ivory, broad, and tall new-Renaissance styled building that stretched from the view of one end of the flat screen to the other. Pillars held beautifully crafted and engraved walls and floors, a brass plaque catching snowflakes.

"I, Tiffany Hong, am here, standing before the prestigious Neculai Museum, where the curator of the establishment, Lucian Dimir, has unveiled a masterpiece that had mysteriously been given to him by an anonymous source. In Romanian, the painting is called: _O Femeie__de__Cultură_ through English translation is: _A Woman of Culture_."

The house creeked eerily as the wind picked up once more.

The scene flashed to a close photo of _A Woman of Culture_, and Kat knew immediately that it was produced from the very same artist as the two previous ones. And so the series continues, she thought, seeing the resemblance to the paintings precedent to it.

The woman was really just a girl, possibly Kat's age when the scene was painted. Despite what the title told, the girl wasn't formally dressed, but rather in a casual dress. A dark rose colored dress adorned her petite body, the bodice was white with the dark rose color making cross designs down until her waist where the skirt fell down to her feet. From the way it gathered to the ground, Kat decided the girl must have been rather short.

Different from the colonial styled dresses, the white apron was thrown aside to a dirty pile next to her feet. Her arms were firm against her sides with her chin up, eyes seeming to glare at the artist. Everything around her was in neutral shades of brown that Kat surmised must have been a sort of wooden shack or possibly a barn. The girl almost looked...angry, fierce.

"…who is this new artist, his art so booming to the world?" The corner of her lips dragged down, why did everyone assume that it was a man who had created it? The camera zoomed in on the curator, Lucian Dimir, his close-cropped hair donning a grey slash through it with a brunette girl, around seventeen, who looked to his daughter, her head tilting down shyly as her father grinned at the camera.

The howling gust of wind slammed into the house again and with that the lights went out.

Through the black of the room, the faintest glow falling through the glass window, no one really panicked, just the pattering of feet before they all started talking again. Kat simply relied on their tone of voice, only being able to see the thinnest outlines of the others.

"Oh great, isn't this just lovely?" Sarcasm—Gabrielle.

"It _could_ be lovely." Suggestive, with a thicker Scottish accent—Angus. "Power's out, it's dark, you may want someone to hold onto, Gabrielle."

The sound of feet shuffling around. "Uh, Angus, remember, we're _all_ still here. You two aren't exactly _alone_." Uncomfortable, and quite possibly blushing—Simon.

Hale's voice pitched in with a: "And I think being alone is kind of _essential _in what you have in mind, Angus."

I saw the tall outline shrug and surmised that it was Angus: "I don't mind sharing her."

"That's a future stab in the eye, Angus. Or quite possibly a kick to the groin. Even when we're all practically blind in here, I can clearly see that." Hale said, amused. "What do you say, Gabrielle?"

"What I _say _is of no consequence apparently, so I'd say a knee to the groin for you Angus—and that goes for you too, Hamish! Understand me, Bagshaws?" Her cousin snapped sharply, the outline of her hands on her hips prominent even in the darkness.

"Ah man, what did I do?" Disappointed with a lighter Scottish accent—Hamish. For feet shuffled and Kat turned to the blob that she assumed was Simon.

"Do you think you could rewire our circuit board?" She asked the moving shadow. He nodded—so she was right, that was Simon. The dark outline maneuvered him around, arms stretched out as if to feel his way through.

"Oh, uh, who's this, I'm pretty sure you're not Hale—oh God, sorry about that Gabrielle!" Simon practically squeaked. Suddenly there was a thud and a blob on the ground that Kat decided was her friend tripping over himself. And a footstool.

"Simon? What are you talking about? You didn't come anywhere near me." Gabrielle stated, her tone puzzled.

"That wasn't you, right, Kat?" Simon inquired nervously.

"No." Kat stated. The Bagshaw brothers seemed to guffaw and snicker, something that had _"Dad,"_ _"Mom,"_ and _"beaten to a pulp,"_ somewhere in there. Kat almost wanted to roll her eyes, much like her cousin would have done, but knew it would have been wasted—it was nearly as dark as a cave.

"Then…who was it—I don't think it was you guys…" Simon drifted off, everyone froze and Kat's eyes sharpened on all the outlines within a second. Gabrielle was closest to the window, her wavy hair an outline of its own. Angus and Hamish were the two who were standing next to one another, Hamish being the taller of the two. Hale was standing with his hands in his pockets, Kat recognizing the broadness of his shoulders. And Simon was the one still on the floor, jolted upward. Suddenly, she felt like ice had just slid down her bare back—she hadn't realized it but when had she stopped hearing the blazing fireplace?

There was someone else in the house—in the very same room as them. The outline wasn't enough to decide the gender, but it took a millisecond for it to shoot directly out of the room—to where they had left the painting!—before Kat felt herself running after it.

Had Kat not been in a near panic, she would have almost laughed. It seemed so ironic—a thief in a family of thieves' home.

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**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: FIRST PERSON [**_**Cameron Ann Morgan**_**]**

"_**This is how you can tell someone is trustworthy. Tell them a lie, and if they keep it a secret, tell them the truth."—Elizabeth [Liz] Sutton**_

Scaling the side of a large brownstone house during a blizzard made escaping the trunk of the limo feel easy (and I had to slap the elderly chauffeur with a Napotine patch to keep him silent). The ice bit at my fingers, making them numb. The cold created a sting through the numbness, as if pins and needles of ice were entering every single pore of my skin, as I grappled for the white ledge of a window, relief warming me (metaphorically, any sort of heat in that weather would have frozen).

Gusts of wind and snow blew in my face, white flakes collecting on my cheeks and eyelashes, my hands not able to get enough friction with the slippery building. I was grateful for the thick sweatshirt. Ignoring the waxy feel of my hands, I lunged towards the white ledge of the window, fingers slicing through the snow piling onto it. Lifting myself up and lunging forward, I nearly slipped before digging my digits into the side ledges. Exhaling lightly, my breath making a small mist, I grabbed the window—it wasn't locked!—and lifted it above me.

The heat melting the immediate frost on my pink face was welcomed as I silently crept in. The room was dark, but was lit dimly from the light spilling through the cracked open door from the hallway. I moved my fingers experimentally, deciding that I hadn't accumulated frostbite.

Glancing around, pulling my sweatshirt closer to my form, I determined that I was in a bedroom. Judging from the beds on either side of me, it was a room for two girls named: Irina and Nadia. Probably of Russian descent? My mind computed this fact, neither of the girls from the heist had those names and there were only two girls that had gotten into the limo, questions raced in my mind. Had they used covers or legends, or were they codenames?

My feet brought me to the small vanity of the room, scanning it like a computer would do a virus. I saw different colored compacts (five. Colors: pink, teal, blue, white, and red), a total of three eyeliners (while recalling Bex's technique of one that could set someone's head on fire); four pens (three working modern day, gel pens and a broken antique ballpoint) and a snowy white business card, the only words on it was a name: _Visily Romani. _

Still eyeing the strange card, I heard the sound of high heels (when you live with Macey McHenry, you get used to it), the volume of it reminding me of gunfire. My hand immediately slipped the card into my sleeve before I dropped to the floor and rolled myself under the bed belonging to Nadia like I was trying to put out a fire on my back. A sense of déjà vu hit me, but silently begged that whoever this girl was, she wouldn't either a) find me (like Aunt Abby) or b) bring a guy with a "come, hither" attitude (like Aunt Abby was _pretending _to do).

Just as the lacy bedspread stilled like curtains, I forced myself to calm my racing heart, its beats like a drum, or rather a complete marching band. My eyes gazed out from the bottom of the bedspread, seeing familiar black heels of the girl back at the Agnora Gallery—Gabrielle (or possibly Nadia or Irina?).

Her feet stopped and I assumed she had sat down on the other bed with the pillow embroidered with _Irina_. A few moments and a sigh later, I saw Gabrielle drop a coat onto the bed, before walking back out the door, leaving it slightly open, like it was before. Counting to ten silently in my head as the footfalls grew fainter; I crawled out from under Nadia's bed in relief.

On her bed sat a simple black picture frame with an older woman that shared Gabrielle's facial structures (or at least what I had managed to see of them through the ends of girly bedspreads and wine colored table cloths).

A sister? A mother? Dismissing it, I paced forward, leaning close to the door, hearing voices from the outside, not trusting or relying on the estimated distance between me and the group. I got an idea. I slipped the dead comms unit from my ear, crouched next to the door and softly flicked it across the floor, its pattering loud compared to the silence.

Satisfied that no one was there, I slipped out into a hallway with polished wooden floors stretching out on both sides of me. Snatching the comms unit back, I analyzed everything. A few doors to my right, a staircase slanted down, my ears perking in response to the noise I heard from below. To my left, more doors lined the cream colored walls. The ceiling lights illuminated the halls. The house seemed to creak as a huge gust of wind tackled it. The lights above my head flickered, as if the blizzard made the bulbs uneasy. Remembering the ice pelting against my (now) damp back, I shivered.

Snow lost all beauty from what I had seen.

As I slid silently across the laminated floor to the stairs, I peered down, expecting to see someone, only to see that a room with a crackling fireplace was empty. It looked to be an image from an interior design's dream—lush carpet, velvet curtains, an elegant coffee table (although a vague part of my mind thought Madame Dabney would have fainted at the fact a glass of water had no coaster underneath it), but seeing a familiar canvas bag leaning against an ottoman, I felt my heart rate accelerate.

_The painting. _

And with another massive gust of wind, the manor seemed to groan from the harsh storm.

It looked as if the storm had finally turned to my side.

All the lights went out—circuit board probably froze.

Without another thought, I raced down the stairs, eyes adjusting easily in the dark, especially from the orange flames licking in the fireplace. I was in what I thought was a living room, before the picture of what the room looked like could evaporate from my mind, I grabbed at the glass of water I had seen minutes ago and sloshed the liquid into the fire. I needed as much darkness as I could get—darkness meant not being seen or detected and not knowing. As a pavement artist—as The Chameleon, in enemy territory, I needed that.

With a swoop of my arm, the bag was on my right shoulder.

My hand shot inside, retrieving the ring and sliding it onto my finger.

Cursing the fact I didn't know the full layout of the house, I ran into the nearest room, hoping to find a door, I had seen one with a reflective glass half-moon somewhere, maybe it was—

I bit my lip so hard I drew blood, to keep myself from squeaking in shock, I had bumped into a hand that bounced off my chest.

"Oh, uh, who's this, I'm pretty sure you're not Hale—oh God, sorry about that Gabrielle!" The outline in front of me exclaim. I froze.

A beat.

"Simon? What are you talking about? You didn't come anywhere near me."

"That wasn't you, right, Kat?"

"No."

My blood felt as cold as the weather outside.

Fueled by instinct, I fled the room, back into the living room, dilated eyes searching, scanning—where was a door?

Suddenly, I felt a tremendous weight slam into my right side, blindsiding me.

I heard something crack.

I felt myself land on my back against hard, unforgiving tiling, my breath escaping my lungs before I came to my senses. I raised my foot and swung it into my opponent's stomach—I heard a strange gargled noise.

A feeling of victory rose in my chest, but crept away as I felt my enemy's hand wrap around my ankle and started to lift me.

Thinking back to Solomon's lessons, pressed my hands against the floor and pushed myself into a handstand, twisted my body and used the momentum to launch my free foot to the side of my opponent's head.

Hard.

Picking myself back up, my ankle screaming in protest, I was about to run for it when the lights went back on. The glare made my eyes ache and colorful spots dance but that didn't last for long when I felt something cover my head as my hands were brutally restrained behind my back. More than one pair of hands grabbed for me as I struggled like a caged animal.

"_Hale!" _I heard a female voice cry, before a fist made contact with my stomach. I bent over, not even resisting the urge to shout in pain.

A strong pair of hands pushed me back and I dropped into a chair, an arm wrapping me around the waist, acting as a seatbelt. My arms were being held back so I kicked like a mad woman before a few of pairs of hands finally restrained them as well.

The sack on my head was pulled roughly off, hairs tangled with it being ripped off as well.

A pair of obscenely angry eyes met my own fierce ones.

"Just _who_ the hell _are _you?"

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_**(Author's Note)**_**: **And…SCENE! CUT! Was that dramatic? Too predictable? 'Cause I can change that, especially with what I have planned for my next chapter (I'll stop babbling before I spoil something ;D). Again, sorry for the delay! It's been rather hectic and I'm juggling this with my other stories as well! And am I prolonging the moment everyone meets? I could be, but I really do not want this story rushed.

Also, again, there's a poll on my profile called: **What story should I update first? **Sole purpose: time management. If you don't have an account, feel free to review and let me know, so I can tally that up in the poll! Thanks!

Oh yes, and in regards to the language in here: I have no intention of writing curse words in here unless the situation calls (emotionally wise or character wise) for it (although I don't really think of 'hell' as a bad word). But there will be no: %&#$ (whatever word that popped up in your mind when you saw that? Probably will not be in the rest of the story, promise :D)

So…how was it? Good? Awesome? Bad? Cliché? "Why are you bothering to even write?"

Previews go out to the FIRST **SEVEN** REVIEWERS!

**THANKS AGAIN FOR THE LOVELY ADVICE AND FEEDBACK! :D & please forgive any typos/spelling and/or grammatical errors!  
**

I'm excited to see all of your reactions to this! So, review please? For me (or Zach? Or Hale? Or Zach _and _Hale?) :D

-a very happy diva


	6. Of Lies and Liasons

**_Disclaimer: Ally Carter owns both the Gallagher Girls series and the Heist Society Novels, I only own this plot._**

_**(Author's Note): **_Okay, okay, okay, **PLEASE DO NOT KILL ME**. Even if you have the absolute right to. I haven't updated for so, _so, __**so, SO **_long, so I am very regretful and would like to sincerely apologize to you as my readers. I've become the type of author that I despised. Although I think I understand how they feel now.

I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed and continued to go along with this story. If it wasn't for your **reviews and encouragements**, this story would quite honestly be buried underneath concrete heavy essays, worksheets and homework from school… (On the bright side, I got straight A's *insert weak smile*).

So **THANK YOU**, to those who haven't given up on me or this story.

Hopefully you'll like what you read, please enjoy!

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**Chapter 6: **_**Of Lies and Liaisons**_

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: FIRST PERSON [**_**Cameron Ann Morgan**_]

"_**Keeping your allies close and your enemies closer is an easy task; what's difficult is deciding exactly who is friend and who is foe." –Abigail Cameron**_

As an agent in training, you would have thought I had been tied to a chair at least once in my life. I had created an antidote for seven deadly poisons only using household items (mediocre cleaning supplies, lemon wedges, salt and just a few drops of vinegar are pretty handy). I had crawled through everything from humid air vents to dusty passageways to cobweb infested rooms that hadn't been opened for eons. I had punched one of my best friends with an uppercut and got an A for it (Bex, however, achieved an A+ by spin kicking me in retaliation).

Through all of this, not once had I been restrained to furniture.

It just seemed wrong.

A boy who looked to be a skinnier and shorter version of Angus was tying my upper body and arms, yanking hard. The brittle rope bit into my arms and wrists, and I stopped struggling, feeling frustration simmering beneath the surface. Wiggling my arms around would've resulted in nothing but red, bloody blisters. I turned my eyes to the girl in front of me, getting a closer look.

I had decided it was the girl called Gabrielle—she was a pretty girl that faintly reminded me of Macey—they stood the roughly same size and the physique were practically carbon copies of one another, although it was obvious she was younger than my friend. She had wavy, bouncy dark chocolate hair and I knew from looking at the silky strands, the products used on her head alone would have punctured a hole in the ozone layer. Or the average person's wallet.

_"Well?" _Gabrielle spat, venomous voice matching her brown eyes, practically flaming behind extended lashes. "Just who _are _you? How did you get in here?"

Calming myself, despite the sparks of panic threatening to fly out, I returned her gaze stonily. Silence was my response.

The brunette swung her hand back, preparing to slap me. I awaited the sharp sting, before a voice from behind Gabrielle's furious form decided to speak up.

"You were the girl at the museum." It wasn't so much a question, but a statement—nearly an accusation.

Gabrielle's hand froze in the air before twirling around to meet the voice, allowing me a glance at the speaker. It was the second girl—Kat, or perhaps even Nadia. She was a smaller girl than Gabrielle and seeing rather hastily combed hair (something Macey had taught all of us to spot and mostly because it reminded me of my own), Kat-slash-Nadia was the opposite of her comrade, clad in wrinkled jeans and a t-shirt as opposed to Gabrielle's form fitting designer names (also something Macey had taught us to spot and again, something similar to my own).

Kat was on one knee beside a boy lying on his back on the floor. Light brown hair was disheveled from what I could tell and the lack of movement reminded me eerily of a corpse.

I could also see that said corpse-like boy was W.W. Hale the Fifth.

I forced myself not to gape.

I just kicked a multi-billionaire's only son and heir in the face.

I pushed the alarmed thought down, hoping the panic didn't show on my face. The only consoling musing in my mind was that I hadn't given him a concussion (I hope) and it wasn't very comforting considering how, through a mild haze of instinct and blindness, I practically smashed my foot into his cranium.

I looked at Kat, eyeing the small similarities between the girls—they're noses, the shape of their jaws, and the curves of their eyes—it was likely they were related.

Before I could decide anything else about Kat, Gabrielle spun once again on her pointed heels, eyes narrowed: "You were the one in _La Femme de Pouvoir's_exhibit too."

Analyzing the accent she had used for the painting's name, I surmised she either spent years in France—practically a native—or I had grossly underestimated her and everyone else in the room. I definitely knew which choice I would have preferred, especially considering my ego in the equation. But I wouldn't kid myself of it no matter how much I wanted to—these people, albeit a bit younger than myself, were tough. And obviously wouldn't go down without a fight.

"You wanted to steal it." Gabrielle hissed.

Shocked by the hypocrisy, I shot back. "So did you!"

My head snapped to the side at the brunt force of her hand. My cheek stung. A heated ache rushed behind my eyes, but I forced it to cool. I almost yelped, although it would have been more of surprise than pain (Bex was my P&E partner most of the time, after all). I could feel the heat as blood rushed to the impact of the possibly red handprint stamped onto my face.

"Don't clump _us _with people like _you._Stealing paintings to make a nasty profit or having a masterpiece sent to some underground circle of warlords!" Disgust dripped from her words, eyes chewing me out. Part of me wanted to twist the haughty little nose that was stuck up in the air I was so annoyed, but the other part was hesitating in confusion at her words.

Swallowing the anger, I allowed the question mark to float to my face. Brows furrowing, I asked curiously: "…weren't you going to do that with the painting too?"

"Of course not!" Gabrielle huffed indignantly. "These paintings obviously meant something to someone out there—be it the artist or its family. They'd want it back."

That stopped me—her breathing was steady, and her eyes weren't dilated. It could have been the truth, but reminding myself of the flawless French accent she had pulled off, I felt the suspicious well up in me again like a balloon. "And you expect me to believe that you had honorable intentions when you took the painting?"

A voice, near the doorway of the room—a kitchen it seemed—spoke up. It was the dark haired boy with glasses. "And what were _your _intentions of sneaking into the exhibit?"

_I'm an agent in training who was sent by my Covert Operations instructor to retrieve and protect the painting—who, by the way, teaches at my school for spies, The Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Women. _

Yes. Because that would have them untie me and set me free.

"The rush!" I blurted out, surprising about everyone present in the room—including myself, but I continued, improvising a cover, keeping my face straight, breath steady and eyes refusing to dilate. "I wanted the rush of it all—my life's been boring since day one—" Breath evenly. Connect eye contact firmly. "—and well, when I heard a new painting had appeared." I shrugged, or as much as one can shrug while being tied up against her will to a kitchen chair. "I went with it—then you guys showed up and it was too interesting to pass up. I would have given the painting back."

"So in short, you're insane."

Had I been Cammie Morgan, I probably would have agreed with him. I schooled the wince out of my expression—the cover was as weak as a house of straw in the face of the bloodthirsty wolf. But as soon as the words were out, I couldn't command them back into my mouth. It seemed instead of the elegant, poised dancer that was Tiffany St. James; I had just made myself an at-risk youth with sticky, impulsive fingers.

Gabrielle's stance, though still tense and untrusting, seemed reluctantly thoughtful. As if I had told her that grass was green, and she was grudgingly trying to accept that I was right and _not _blurt out that it was actually an elaborate shade of purple.

"Not completely insane. There's such a thing as being heist drunk after all, gets to the best of us." She turned her gaze to me, albeit distastefully. "Even _this_ girl." Her tone suggested I was the road kill underneath her shiny, lacquer car, but despite that - was she defending me? "In her case, she was trying to _get _heist drunk. It's like someone sneaking into their mother's liquor cabinet, wanting to experience the feeling of scotch and whiskey, of that sort."

"Gabrielle." A voice croaked from behind her. "Just because you did that with Irina's brandy, doesn't mean everyone would."

All eyes, even my own pair, turned to the boy, who was now sitting up. Despite the slight trickle of blood from his temple, he grinned crookedly in a way that reminded me far too much of Zach for comfort. Kat had already grabbed a paper towel from the granite counter top, and gently pushed the guy so he had the support of the refrigerator behind him. She was currently pressing it to the side of his head. Gabrielle looked torn from being annoyed and relieved.

"His mouth is moving, and very Hale-like words are spewing out of it. I believe he's going to be alright." The younger of the Scottish brothers walked away from my side to the injured boy sitting on the floor.

Gabrielle froze for a moment before stepping her heels right over the span of W.W. Hale's legs and passed Kat over to something.

Seeing what she was picking up, I felt as if the very air wanted me to suffocate to death.

It was the canvas bag. But instead of seeing the smooth canvas, something like a wrapper containing a candy bar, the bag crumbled, telling me that the contents of the bag were crushed.

The painting.

Thinking back to the tackle I received from the boy on the ground, I remembered hearing a crack.

Something other than oxygen seemed to have clogged my lungs. I couldn't breathe for a moment. The air between the six other occupants of the room felt stale and heavy, as if a single moved would result in an unwanted fracture of the silence.

The small brunette on the ground swirled on the heel of her foot sharply. "Gabrielle—is it—"

"It's fine." Gabrielle said, peeking into the tan bag, and I felt my respiratory system awaken from its brief shut down. "Beautifully crafted frame basically firewood now, but the painting survived." She cut her eyes to me, as if I was the reason behind every foul deed ever committed in the history of the world, before going on, "You're lucky."

I did nothing but glare back, her attitude wearing down on my nerves like the brittle rope was wearing down on my wrists. Feeling the slight moisture, I knew the next time I looked at my skin; I'd need a few swabs of CIA-certified cream with a giant dollop of aloe.

"So..." My eyes swiveled over to the boy with glasses. "Exactly what do we do now, Kat?"

Knowing suspicious blue eyes were analyzing me like a professional interrogator, I examined the occupants of the room. Hale the Fifth had crossed his ankles, as well as his arms across his chest—as if the trickle of red down his face hurt nothing more than a mosquito bite (that is, only if one didn't count the specially engineered breed of mosquitoes the CIA had raised in a base somewhere in Minnesota).

Angus looked to be grinning madly, as if his excitement was a bomb ticking its way to a massive explosion. My eyes skimmed over to the younger brother, expecting to see a mirror of his twin when I froze at the scrutinizing gaze before me. The look he was giving me made me think of Josh's expression when he was trying to remember a certain vocabulary word for his English final. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a red flag shot out of a socket, waving crazily as if it were a person desperately trying to warn me of danger but was screaming in a foreign language (which would have to be quite foreign for a Gallagher Girl not to know about it). Dodging the Scottish boy's gaze, my eyes skipped over to the boy with glasses and saw his face awaiting an order from the very blue eyes scanning over me with about as much tenderness as a prison warden (which I should know, that rumor Tina Walters had spread about Solomon previously leading the command of seventy-two state-of-the-art prisons wasn't _too _far-fetched).

"We could always call the cops." Hale the Fifth suggested, rather cheerfully in the chilly ambiance. Meeting my incredulous gaze, his eyes hardened stonily but his expression went carefully blank. He pointed a finger at his bloody temple. "I'm sure they'd love to hear the story behind this."

"You're W. W. Hale the Fifth, aren't you?" I blurted out, ignoring his threat for the moment.

"Depends." He answered swiftly. "I can be anyone, anytime, actually." Kat's eyes bore a hole in the side of my head.

"And you would be Kat, right?" No response and scurrying to find the snarky Macey McHenry side of me with all my might, I continued. "Or do you prefer Melanie O'Hara?"

The air between us all dropped several degrees.

W. W. Hale the fifth's harsh eyes gave the impression of an imposing militia tank just as his mouth thinned to an angry line. Suspicious tingled in the air like electricity before a lightning storm—crackling, invisible and just waiting for the correct fuse to set it off.

Somewhere in the corner of the kitchen, I heard a muffled, "Cops could works."

"I'm sure they'd love to hear my story on how a fancy painting got here too, especially considering since said painting was in the Agnora Gallery just a few hours ago."

My words were promptly drowned in heavy silence and sub-zero glares that made the blizzard outside the window seem like a tropical paradise. .

"Well," Kat stood from her position on the ground with the grace of her namesake. Her feet walked to stand in front of me, and despite her crinkled jeans and worn-out shirt, her stance was a semblance to the stereotypical figure clad in pin-striped suits, Italian fedoras with an expensive cigar dangling out of her mouth. Her blue eyes met mine. "I suppose we can find other alternatives."

Thoughts ran through my mind, images of torture flitted across my pupils and previous words spoken by nearly all the other Gallagher Girls back home flooded my head: _You're only in trouble, if you're caught._

"Hamish," I snapped back to attention as Kat looked at the Scottish boy, his curious, one-sided staring contest with me adjourned. "Do you have another pair of handcuffs?"

Hamish nodded yes.

"Didn't think you had that kind of mind, Kat."

Eyebrows were wiggled suggestively, and certain heads of Scottish boys were bashed in by manicured hands.

Kat turned back to me. And the hairs on the back of my neck froze just like the icicles slowly growing, hanging on the gutters, looking more and more like fangs as I felt a blow to my neck.

My consciousness was blown away just like the flurry of unequal hail swarming around outside the window.

* * *

**NEW YORK, USA**

**POINT OF VIEW: THIRD PERSON [**_**Katarina Bishop**_**]**

"_**Because life gives you puzzle pieces you never thought you would use, figuring out where they go is the key." -Nadia Bishop**_

"You have to admit, she might not be the prettiest, and probably not the smartest, but the girl _is _pretty hot."

A prominent _thud _was heard in the other room.

Choice words in Latin were being thrown around more than a ball at a sporting event.

Glancing up, past the stairs, at the still lit threshold, Kat caught a glimpse of Simon attempting to coax an irritated Gabrielle (the key word being _attempted_). Her eyes flickered to her left, trying to shrug off the disturbed feeling running its ghostly fingers up and down her spine. Yes, she had a criminal record that would have made even purgatory warden weep (which Kat had tallied onto the mental chalkboard of her brain, there was actually no physical evidence against her, of course). Yes, she had been groomed for the role of a thief (_liberator!_), and used Van Gogh as fodder. And _yes_, she knew the correct method of cracking a bulletproof safe before she was properly potty trained (a fact that would never see the light of day).

However, not once in her line of education had Katarina Bishop handcuffed a person, trapped them in her Uncle's basement, and knocked them unconscious.

Not in that particular order, but the brunette had bigger things to worry about.

Kat looked over at the girl who had gone from a being a spitfire to becoming a human sandbag. The other's back faced Kat, her limp, restrained hands visible has laid on her side. A chain snaked from the steel links was wrapped tightly around one of the various water pipes weaving through the cold brick wall.

It was probably the first time Kat was grateful Uncle Eddie hadn't listened to her advice on finishing the basement.

The man made a mean vegetable soup, but no one in the family could deny the quirky fact that he procrastinated when it involved calling a contractor.

"You know," Kat turned. Hale stepped closer to her. "It's not your fault."

"I know." She said, a silent 'but' dangling at the edge of her tone.

It was the most logical solution at the moment—had they dropped the girl off at the police station, there was no telling what she would spout out. She knew about Melanie O'Hara, Kat's eyes narrowed. Letting her go was out of the question for the same reasons. The possibility of phoning her father flickered in her mind for a moment before it was snuffed out completely. Bobby Bishop was in Turkey, whittling out a supposedly cursed necklace of some kind, a situation that trumped the dirty blond lying on the floor.

Kat released the mental sigh before turning her attention to Hale. "Does it hurt?"

Hale touched the white bandages wrapped around his cranium the same way a teenage girl would caress a newly bought headband. His grin probably would have knocked said teenage girl unconscious. "Does it add to my bad boy image?"

"Seems more like mischievous delinquent to me." The corner of her lips quirked up. Kat cracked a smile from a face of somber stone. "Maybe your next identity could be a newly released juvenile delinquent turning a new leaf…Whalen?"

Hale looked scandalized. "The day I turn a new leaf is the day I actually consider taking up the name Whalen."

Kat cocked a brow, "So also the same day one of Angus' pick up lines works on Gabrielle?"

"Thank you for understanding." Hale bowed his head, in all his faux-courteous glory, strands of wheat colored hair sticking out from underneath his bandages. Almost unconsciously, Kat's hand gently pushed the soft strands away from his battle wound. By the time she had rearranged his hair, Kat's mind had all but turned into a computer program, plotting out her next move.

So of course, when Hale gave Kat a particular heated look, she had already turned a calculating stare back to the sleeping girl in the corner.

_Yes, Katarina Bishop had much bigger things to worry about._

She started for the staircase, Hale at her heels, a decidedly urgent swing to her hips, and a glitter of resolve in her blue eyes.

Kat fingered the white card in her hand.

_"Find it & Get it"_

Well, after all, Visily Romani asked for it.

* * *

_**(Author's Note): **_Regretfully short, and the writing itself is rather rough around the edges, but I do hope this chapter interested you enough.

So what do you all think of it? I'd love to hear your opinions :D _So please take the time to review, even if it's as small as a simple "good" at the very least, I will know your opinion. _

*****Also a question, considering my sporadic updating skills (or lack of), do you guys even WANT previews? It would really help me out if you let me know. Please and thank you.*****

Again, I'm sincerely sorry for taking forever to update. And **THANK YOU SO MUCH TO THOSE OF YOU WHO HAD REVIEWED AND ENCOURAGED ME**, it's because of you people that I even got the motivation to write this. So thank you!

-a-tired-but-grateful-diva

P.S. I'll do my best to reply to your reviews right away! I'm sorry if I haven't done so already; I truly am scatterbrained!


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